


Stolen

by gonergone



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Declan POV, Gen, hints of Declan/Ronan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-05 10:24:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3116588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gonergone/pseuds/gonergone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing about Ronan was ever easy or predictable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stolen

Boxing was an art, their father had always told Declan, but Declan had never really believed it. Boxing was something of his father's that he was passing on to them, (the _only_ personal thing that he ever bothered passing on to Declan, not that Declan was counting), (except he was, of course he was), and the lessons were one of the few times they were sure to have their father _there_ , present and accounted for, his attention not sliding off them like they were teflon. 

Ronan boxed the way he did everything else: he threw himself into every jab, every uppercut completely, without thinking or caring at all about the future. He punched as hard as he could, put his weight behind every hit, never bothered guarding properly. He was brutal, relentless, and their father had always praised that part of him, cultivated it. Sometimes Declan wondered how much of Ronan was Ronan's own making and how much of him had been seeds planted by their father. 

Ronan was a whirlwind of energy, but Declan's form was better. _He_ was better. He moved his feet quickly, he varied his punches and combinations and delivered them rapidly without dropping his shoulders. He always had his guard up. He practiced thrusting and parrying until it was engrained and automatic. He was _good_ at it, very good, but Ronan always won anyway, because Ronan was a wild animal, and even when he was hurt, even when he was bleeding and beaten on the mat he would never surrender. Never. So Declan would have to concede to save his brother from himself.

The problem was that once he started doing it, he could never figure out how to stop.

*

Declan sagged slightly against the pew as the priest droned on, exhausted after a long week of midterms and internship interviews. He wanted to spend the spring and summer interning on the Hill, since it looked likely he was spending the summer in DC anyway – he certainly wasn't going back to the Barns. There was no reason to. They had all grown up there, but it was Ronan's home in a way that Declan could never understand. It was just a place to him, and not one he missed for not setting foot in for years. 

He was tired and stressed, and the long drive to Henrietta hadn't helped, either. He smothered a yawn in his fist and tried to ignore Matthew elbowing him indignantly, even managing to ignore Ronan glowering at him. Ronan was always glowering, since Declan had told him the truth about Matthew but before that, too; Matthew was just the latest pebble added to the pile, the red cape that was being thrown in front of the bull.

He licked his lips and watched Ronan turn huffily back toward the altar. Ronan had lost weight. It was hard to see because he was all muscle and sinew, but Declan could tell. The angles of his face were sharper, the curve of his ass less. His skin was paler than usual and the black smudges under his eyes stood out like beacons. Declan supposed most people would assume it was drugs, and part of him wished it was something that easy and predictable.

Nothing about Ronan was ever easy or predictable. 

He went back to Henrietta every week because Ronan and Matthew were his family, because Ronan couldn't be trusted to look after himself, let alone Matthew, and Declan was just waiting for the week that he came up and Ronan wasn't at church, wasn't anywhere, or when he got a phone call late at night from the police, only this time it wouldn't be asking for bail, they would be calling from the morgue. Because that was all he could see in Ronan's future - a fiery death that Ronan himself didn't seem to be at all concerned about avoiding. And then what? Matthew would end up like their mother, asleep forever. And Declan would have to pick up the pieces, as he always did.

The sheen of Ronan's scalp under his shorn hair invited touch. Declan thought about how soft his hair would be. He had spent nights thinking about it – the only part of Ronan that wasn't jagged and dangerous. The only part of him that Declan _could_ touch without losing his hand. If he was lucky. 

*

"We should get lunch," Matthew said, looking from Ronan to Declan and back again, his eyes wide and hopeful.

"I'm sure Declan needs to get back," Ronan sneered. "What's her name this week?" It was a typical jab, but not as sharp as it should have been. Declan wasn't sure if Ronan was too tired or distracted to hate him as much as he normally did, but he scowled at his brother automatically, playing his part. There had always been something violent and offended in the way Ronan talked about Declan's girlfriends, and Declan would have been lying if he claimed that that hadn't made him a little hopeful in the past. 

Ronan was right, in a way. Declan had a dinner date with someone he'd met in his statistics class, but pissing Ronan off was suddenly more important. Forcing that venom back onto Declan, the only emotion Ronan bothered to show toward him anymore. 

He parried. "Lunch sounds great," he told Matthew, and watched his eyes light up. 

*

As he was passing his brother to get back to his car he touched the back of Ronan's shirt lightly with the ball of his thumb, one instant of feeling Ronan's heat burning through his shirt and into Declan's skin, one touch to last him another week or month, until he could sneak another. He had lived his life on stolen touches, and he didn't regret a single one.


End file.
